My Heart's Jacket
by Vanilla Baby
Summary: Pre-BDM. Set During "War Stories". Wash deals with his day, you know, with the torture and killing and all , and Zoe deals with Wash dealing. W/Z romance, because there isn't enough out there.


**Title:** My Heart's Jacket  
**Author: **VanillaBaby  
**Character/Pairing:** Wash/Zoe  
**Rating:** PG  
**Warnings:** Kinda A/U, but not too much to where it'd be jarring

**Summary:** Set during _War Stories_. A brief little scene between Zoe and Wash, where Wash deals with his day (You know, torture and killing and such...), and Zoe deals with him dealing.  
**Disclaimer: **Joss is Boss. Not my ship, I just fly it when Wash is on vacation.  
**Author Notes:** This is my first foray into W/Z, and I hope I did them justice. Actually, come to think of it, it's my first foray into _Firefly_, so don't hate me if the characterization is a bit off, i tried my best. I wrote what my heart felt was right.

* * *

Zoë had once been accused of having a cold heart.

She was admittedly not the warmest person ever, but she never considered herself cold. She just preferred to dress her feelings in winter clothes.

Jackets. Scarves. Hats. Gloves. Of course a sidearm; "a good heart should never go unprotected", she'd always said. All the cover up gave the illusion of an arctic woman.

So when she opened the hatch to her bunk, and climbed down, she was surprised to find her husband appearing as cold as people often claimed she acted

He sat hunched on the bed with shoulders slumped. Downcasted eyes studying the far leg of their bedside table. Paled face. Hands on knees. Emptied shotgun propped up against the bed.

She approached him slowly, carefully toeing her way around the guns, once secured to his person, now emptied and strewn over the floor. The bed dipped to her weight. Settled next to her husband. He smelled wrong; his musky, aero-fuel scent punctuated with the sharp burning scents of gunpowder and burnt flesh and the sourness of blood. With proficient, well -trained hands, she grabbed him from under his arms and lifted him to his feet. Requiring more effort from her than her man usually allowed.

Blue eyes refused to meet brown.

Blue eyes remained red, bleary. Unfocused on the floor guns

His wordiness is replaced by silence. Engines groaning. The whirr of the turbines. Auxiliary ship noises

The small hum as she unzipped his flight vest. The crinkling as it slid off his shoulders. The clunk as it slid from the bed's side and hit the floor. Flecks of real red in his hair. "Clashes" she mutters, running a finger along the dried blood clumping the fine strands together

Still no words. Still no blue. All engines, whirrs, and her heart's winter hat.

She tackles the flight suit next. Untangling the sleeves from around his waist. He flicks the shoes from his feet, and allows the offending orange garment pool to the ground. With no care or regard. He slumps even more to its absence.

The white undershirt will be the hardest part. She makes sure to navigate it around the trenches of his skin that still smolder in the absence of electricity. She doesn't see it, but she can sense him wince. His body temporarily, almost unnoticeably, rigid, then relaxing once the fabric skims past the aftershock. Pop. Crack. He lifts his arms to allow the shirt over his head.

Swish. It hits the floor.

Blue eyes still glued to his toes. Still turbine whirrs. She-- still wearing her heart's gloves.

Navigating the landmines, ("guns," she reminds herself) on the floor is easier the second time around. "I've surveyed the territory. I know my way around now," She thinks, opening his dresser drawer, and tossing a pair of clean boxers, and battered plaid sweatpants in his direction. This time keeping her brown focused on the ship's wall. She can't stand to watch him not watching her all over again.

In her confusion she strains to hear his sound. His voice. The comfort his voice brings her. The comfort of noise she is suddenly so aware he provided.

Only the rustling of clothes, and the gentle glide of his dresser drawer back into it's place by her hand. Her mind screams, but her mouth knowing far better tha her foolish head. Make him make the first move. A good defense is the best offense.

The sheets ruffle, and she knows he's made it into the bed, and she really knows then. She can feel the blue bore holes into her back, and that is signal enough for her to join him. Navigating the territory. Dropping pant, belt, and shirt bombs all over the landscape, but still maintaining her heart's jacket. "A good heart should never go unprotected", she reminds herself. The bed dips again to her body's full weight. Face to face, body to body with him. Her husband.

When brown eyes finally meet blue, she can see the hurt, and the exhaustion, and the longing. Not for her body, but for her. "Zoë." It is soft, but beckoning. Then, his eyes start raining, a rarity from her husband.

"I wouldn't have made it," he whispers, as his eyes continue to rain, one of which is bruising a terrible purple shade. ("clashes", she thinks to herself) "I wouldn't have made it. I wouldn't have made it. I wo-…."Mumbling and repeating over and over, until she pulls his unfamiliar smell, bloody hair, and utterly devastated face into her shoulder.

Her hand touches the unburned flesh of his chest where his heart lives, and it burns.

It burns.

Her body melts with him. Heat and cold lost in embrace.

Her heart takes off its jacket.


End file.
